`Ah!Butthatisfunk。You’vegotit：fatedtoit。Andyoushouldliveuptoit。Whohasgiventhecolliersalltheyhavethat’sworthhaving：
alltheirpoliticalliberty，andtheireducation，suchasitis，theirsanitation，theirhealth-conditions，theirbooks，theirmusic，everything。
Whohasgivenitthem？Havecolliersgivenittocolliers？No!AlltheWragbysandShipleysinEnglandhavegiventheirpart，andmustgoongiving。
There’syourresponsibility。’
Connielistened，andflushedveryred。
`I’dliketogivesomething，’shesaid。`ButI’mnotallowed。Everythingistobesoldandpaidfornow；andallthethingsyoumentionnow，WragbyandShipleysellsthemtothepeople，atagoodprofit。Everythingissold。Youdon’tgiveoneheart-beatofrealsympathy。Andbesides，whohastakenawayfromthepeopletheirnaturallifeandmanhood，andgiventhemthisindustrialhorror？Whohasdonethat？’
`AndwhatmustIdo？’heasked，green。`Askthemtocomeandpillageme？’
`WhyisTevershallsougly，sohideous？Whyaretheirlivessohopeless？’
`TheybuilttheirownTevershall，that’spartoftheirdisplayoffreedom。
TheybuiltthemselvestheirprettyTevershall，andtheylivetheirownprettylives。Ican’tlivetheirlivesforthem。Everybeetlemustliveitsownlife。’
`Butyoumakethemworkforyou。Theylivethelifeofyourcoal-mine。’
`Notatall。Everybeetlefindsitsownfood。Notonemanisforcedtoworkforme。
`Theirlivesareindustrializedandhopeless，andsoareours，’shecried。
`Idon’tthinktheyare。That’sjustaromanticfigureofspeech，arelicoftheswooninganddie-awayromanticism。Youdon’tlookatallahopelessfigurestandingthere，Conniemydear。’
Whichwastrue。Forherdark-blueeyeswereflashing，hercolourwashotinhercheeks，shelookedfullofarebelliouspassionfarfromthedejectionofhopelessness。Shenoticed，illthetussockyplacesofthegrass，cottonyyoungcowslipsstandingupstillblearedintheirdown。
Andshewonderedwithrage，whyitwasshefeltCliffordwassowrong，yetshecouldn’tsayittohim，shecouldnotsayexactlywherehewaswrong。
`Nowonderthemenhateyou，’shesaid。
`Theydon’t!’hereplied。`Anddon’tfallintoerrors：inyoursenseoftheword，theyarenotmen。Theyareanimalsyoudon’tunderstand，andnevercould。Don’tthrustyourillusionsonotherpeople。Themasseswerealwaysthesame，andwillalwaysbethesame。Nero’sslaveswereextremelylittledifferentfromourcolliersortheFordmotor-carworkmen。ImeanNero’smineslavesandhisfieldslaves。Itisthemasses：theyaretheunchangeable。Anindividualmayemergefromthemasses。Buttheemergencedoesn’talterthemass。Themassesareunalterable。Itisoneofthemostmomentousfactsofsocialscience。Panemetcircenses!Onlytodayeducationisoneofthebadsubstitutesforacircus。Whatiswrongtodayisthatwe’vemadeaprofoundhashofthecircusespartoftheprogramme，andpoisonedourmasseswithalittleeducation。’
WhenCliffordbecamereallyrousedinhisfeelingsaboutthecommonpeople，Conniewasfrightened。Therewassomethingdevastatinglytrueinwhathesaid。Butitwasatruththatkilled。
Seeingherpaleandsilent，Cliffordstartedthechairagain，andnomorewassaidtillhehaltedagainatthewoodgate，whichsheopened。
`Andwhatweneedtotakeupnow，’hesaid，`iswhips，notswords。Themasseshavebeenruledsincetimebegan，andtilltimeends，ruledtheywillhavetobe。Itissheerhypocrisyandfarcetosaytheycanrulethemselves。’
`Butcanyourulethem？’sheasked。
`I？Ohyes!Neithermymindnormywilliscrippled，andIdon’trulewithmylegs。Icandomyshareofruling：absolutely，myshare；andgivemeason，andhewillbeabletorulehisportionafterme。’
`Buthewouldn’tbeyourownson，ofyourownrulingclass；orperhapsnot，’shestammered。
`Idon’tcarewhohisfathermaybe，solongasheisahealthymannotbelownormalintelligence。Givemethechildofanyhealthy，normallyintelligentman，andIwillmakeaperfectlycompetentChatterleyofhim。
Itisnotwhobegetsus，thatmatters，butwherefateplacesus。Placeanychildamongtherulingclasses，andhewillgrowup，tohisownextent，aruler。Putkings’anddukes’childrenamongthemasses，andthey’llbelittleplebeians，massproducts。Itistheoverwhelmingpressureofenvironment。’
`Thenthecommonpeoplearen’tarace，andthearistocratsaren’tblood，’
shesaid。
`No，mychild!Allthatisromanticillusion。Aristocracyisafunction，apartoffate。Andthemassesareafunctioningofanotherpartoffate。
Theindividualhardlymatters。Itisaquestionofwhichfunctionyouarebroughtuptoandadaptedto。Itisnottheindividualsthatmakeanaristocracy：
itisthefunctioningofthearistocraticwhole。Anditisthefunctioningofthewholemassthatmakesthecommonmanwhatheis。’
`Thenthereisnocommonhumanitybetweenusall!’
`Justasyoulike。Weallneedtofillourbellies。Butwhenitcomestoexpressiveorexecutivefunctioning，Ibelievethereisagulfandanabsoluteone，betweentherulingandtheservingclasses。Thetwofunctionsareopposed。Andthefunctiondeterminestheindividual。’
Connielookedathimwithdazedeyes。
`Won’tyoucomeon？’shesaid。
Andhestartedhischair。Hehadsaidhissay。Nowhelapsedintohispeculiarandrathervacantapathy，thatConniefoundsotrying。Inthewood，anyhow，shewasdeterminednottoargue。
Infrontofthemrantheopencleftoftheriding，betweenthehazelwallsandthegaygreytrees。Thechairpuffedslowlyon，slowlysurgingintotheforget-me-notsthatroseupinthedrivelikemilkfroth，beyondthehazelshadows。Cliffordsteeredthemiddlecourse，wherefeetpassinghadkeptachannelthroughtheflowers。ButConnie，walkingbehind，hadwatchedthewheelsjoltoverthewood-ruffandthebugle，andsquashthelittleyellowcupsofthecreeping-jenny。Nowtheymadeawakethroughtheforget-me-nots。
Alltheflowerswerethere，thefirstbluebellsinbluepools，likestandingwater。
`Youarequiterightaboutitsbeingbeautiful，’saidClifford。`Itissoamazingly。WhatisquitesolovelyasanEnglishspring!’
ConniethoughtitsoundedasifeventhespringbloomedbyactofParliament。
AnEnglishspring!WhynotanIrishone？orJewish？Thechairmovedslowlyahead，pasttuftsofsturdybluebellsthatstooduplikewheatandovergreyburdockleaves。Whentheycametotheopenplacewherethetreeshadbeenfelled，thelightfloodedinratherstark。Andthebluebellsmadesheetsofbrightbluecolour，hereandthere，sheeringoffintolilacandpurple。Andbetween，thebrackenwasliftingitsbrowncurledheads，likelegionsofyoungsnakeswithanewsecrettowhispertoEve。Cliffordkeptthechairgoingtillhecametothebrowofthehill；Conniefollowedslowlybehind。Theoak-budswereopeningsoftandbrown。Everythingcametenderlyoutoftheoldhardness。Eventhesnaggycraggyoak-treesputoutthesoftestyoungleaves，spreadingthin，brownlittlewingslikeyoungbat-wingsinthelight。Whyhadmenneveranynewnessinthem，anyfreshnesstocomeforthwith!Stalemen!
Cliffordstoppedthechairatthetopoftheriseandlookeddown。Thebluebellswashedbluelikeflood-wateroverthebroadriding，andlitupthedownhillwithawarmblueness。
`It’saveryfinecolourinitself，’saidClifford，`butuselessformakingapainting。’
`Quite!’saidConnie，completelyuninterested。
`ShallIventureasfarasthespring？’saidClifford。
`Willthechairgetupagain？’shesaid。
`We’lltry；nothingventure，nothingwin!’
Andthechairbegantoadvanceslowly，joltinglydownthebeautifulbroadridingwashedoverwithblueencroachinghyacinths。Olastofallships，throughthehyacinthianshallows!Opinnaceonthelastwildwaters，sailinginthelastvoyageofourcivilization!Whither，Oweirdwheeledship，yourslowcoursesteering。Quietandcomplacent，Cliffordsatatthewheelofadventure：inhisoldblackhatandtweedjacket，motionlessandcautious。OCaptain，myCaptain，oursplendidtripisdone!Notyetthough!Downhill，inthewake，cameConstanceinhergreydress，watchingthechairjoltdownwards。
Theypassedthenarrowtracktothehut。Thankheavenitwasnotwideenoughforthechair：hardlywideenoughforoneperson。Thechairreachedthebottomoftheslope，andswervedround，todisappear。AndConnieheardalowwhistlebehindher。Sheglancedsharplyround：thekeeperwasstridingdownhilltowardsher，hisdogkeepingbehindhim。
`IsSirCliffordgoingtothecottage？’heasked，lookingintohereyes。
`No，onlytothewell。’
`Ah!Good!ThenIcankeepoutofsight。ButIshallseeyoutonight。
Ishallwaitforyouatthepark-gateaboutten。’
Helookedagaindirectintohereyes。
`Yes，’shefaltered。
TheyheardthePapp!Papp!ofClifford’shorn，tootingforConnie。She`Coo-eed!’inreply。Thekeeper’sfaceflickeredwithalittlegrimace，andwithhishandhesoftlybrushedherbreastupwards，fromunderneath。
Shelookedathim，frightened，andstartedrunningdownthehill，callingCoo-ee!againtoClifford。Themanabovewatchedher，thenturned，grinningfaintly，backintohispath。
ShefoundCliffordslowlymountingtothespring，whichwashalfwayuptheslopeofthedarklarch-wood。Hewastherebythetimeshecaughthimup。
`Shedidthatallright，’hesaid，referringtothechair。
Connielookedatthegreatgreyleavesofburdockthatgrewoutghostlyfromtheedgeofthelarch-wood。ThepeoplecallitRobinHood’sRhubarb。
Howsilentandgloomyitseemedbythewell!Yetthewaterbubbledsobright，wonderful!Andtherewerebitsofeye-brightandstrongbluebugle……Andthere，underthebank，theyellowearthwasmoving。Amole!Itemerged，rowingitspinkhands，andwavingitsblindgimletofaface，withthetinypinknose-tipuplifted。
`Itseemstoseewiththeendofitsnose，’saidConnie。
`Betterthanwithitseyes!’hesaid。`Willyoudrink？’
`Willyou？’
Shetookanenamelmugfromatwigonatree，andstoopedtofillitforhim。Hedrankinsips。Thenshestoopedagain，anddrankalittleherself。
`Soicy!’shesaidgasping。
`Good，isn’tit!Didyouwish？’
`Didyou？’
`Yes，Iwished。ButIwon’ttell。’
Shewasawareoftherappingofawoodpecker，thenofthewind，softandeeriethroughthelarches。Shelookedup。Whitecloudswerecrossingtheblue。
`Clouds!’shesaid。
`Whitelambsonly，’hereplied。
Ashadowcrossedthelittleclearing。Themolehadswumoutontothesoftyellowearth。
`Unpleasantlittlebeast，weoughttokillhim，’saidClifford。
`Look!he’slikeaparsoninapulpit，’shesaid。
Shegatheredsomesprigsofwoodruffandbroughtthemtohim。
`New-mownhay!’hesaid。`Doesn’titsmellliketheromanticladiesofthelastcentury，whohadtheirheadsscrewedontherightwayafterall!’
Shewaslookingatthewhiteclouds。
`Iwonderifitwillrain，’shesaid。
`Rain!Why!Doyouwantitto？’
Theystartedonthereturnjourney，Cliffordjoltingcautiouslydownhill。
Theycametothedarkbottomofthehollow，turnedtotheright，andafterahundredyardsswervedupthefootofthelongslope，wherebluebellsstoodinthelight。
`Now，oldgirl!’saidClifford，puttingthechairtoit。
Itwasasteepandjoltyclimb。Thechairpuggedslowly，inastrugglingunwillingfashion。Still，shenosedherwayupunevenly，tillshecametowherethehyacinthswereallaroundher，thenshebalked，struggled，jerkedalittlewayoutoftheflowers，thenstopped`We’dbettersoundthehornandseeifthekeeperwillcome，’saidConnie。
`Hecouldpushherabit。Forthatmatter，Iwillpush。Ithelps。’
`We’llletherbreathe，’saidClifford。`Doyoumindputtingascotchunderthewheel？’
Conniefoundastone，andtheywaited。AfterawhileCliffordstartedhismotoragain，thensetthechairinmotion。Itstruggledandfalteredlikeasickthing，withcuriousnoises。
`Letmepush!’saidConnie，comingupbehind。
`No!Don’tpush!’hesaidangrily。`What’sthegoodofthedamnedthing，ifithastobepushed!Putthestoneunder!’
Therewasanotherpause，thenanotherstart；butmoreineffectualthanbefore。
`Youmustletmepush，’saidshe。`Orsoundthehornforthekeeper。’
`Wait!’
Shewaited；andhehadanothertry，doingmoreharmthangood。
`Soundthehornthen，ifyouwon’tletmepush，’shesaid。`Hell!Bequietamoment!’
Shewasquietamoment：hemadeshatteringeffortswiththelittlemotor。
`You’llonlybreakthethingdownaltogether，Clifford，’sheremonstrated；
`besideswastingyournervousenergy。’
`IfIcouldonlygetoutandlookatthedamnedthing!’hesaid，exasperated。
Andhesoundedthehornstridently。`PerhapsMellorscanseewhat’swrong。’
Theywaited，amongthemashedflowersunderaskysoftlycurdlingwithcloud。Inthesilenceawood-pigeonbegantocooroo-hoohoo!roo-hoohoo!
Cliffordshutherupwithablastonthehorn。
Thekeeperappeareddirectly，stridinginquiringlyroundthecorner。
Hesaluted。
`Doyouknowanythingaboutmotors？’askedCliffordsharply。
`IamafraidIdon’t。Hasshegonewrong？’
`Apparently!’snappedClifford。
Themancrouchedsolicitouslybythewheel，andpeeredatthelittleengine。
`I’mafraidIknownothingatallaboutthesemechanicalthings，SirClifford，’hesaidcalmly。`Ifshehasenoughpetrolandoil——’
`Justlookcarefullyandseeifyoucanseeanythingbroken，’snappedClifford。
Themanlaidhisgunagainstatree，tookoilhiscoat，andthrewitbesideit。Thebrowndogsatguard。Thenhesatdownonhisheelsandpeeredunderthechair，pokingwithhisfingeratthegreasylittleengine，andresentingthegrease-marksonhiscleanSundayshirt。
`Doesn’tseemanythingbroken，’hesaid。Andhestoodup，pushingbackhishatfromhisforehead，rubbinghisbrowandapparentlystudying。
`Haveyoulookedattherodsunderneath？’askedClifford。`Seeiftheyareallright!’